


Cakes and Pies

by Engiffyserce



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Aggressive fluff, First Person, M/M, Old work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:49:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1702076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Engiffyserce/pseuds/Engiffyserce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: 'Pie vs Cake: Any couple. They get into an argument that leads into frustration and one shutting the other up with kisses'</p>
<p>Grif never argued anything with solid reasoning. Never. That was too much effort on his part. Not even when it came down to his personal well-being. Well, actually, I’m lying if I said that. There’s one thing he argues with explanation. And that one thing? The argument of:</p>
<p>     Cake versus pie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cakes and Pies

**Author's Note:**

> [Disclaimer: It’s a bad form of aggressive fluff. It’s not cute or really funny either, I’m sorry :c (But you get sexual tension haha)]

     Grif never argued anything with solid reasoning. Never. That was too much effort on his part. Not even when it came down to his personal well-being. Well, actually, I’m lying if I said that. There’s one thing he argues with explanation. And that one thing? The argument of:

     Cake versus pie.

"I’m telling you Simmons-" He countered, eyeing the me sternly. "Pie is better because of flavor. You don’t have to slather it with fucking sugary coating to make it taste good. Now listen, I’m not saying frosting isn’t good and everything, but come on man, look at the facts!"

     And then there was me, who didn’t give a fuck about the whole thing, all except for not wanting to give the useless excuse for a soldier bragging right to  _anything._

"Like hell any of that was ‘fact’. Cake is a multi-dimensional sweet with physical layers you can dig into and observe. Pies are literally two things of bread with filling in between them you bake on high for forty-five minutes and eat right away. Cakes take time and you have to have passion for," I snapped back at him.

     We were sitting in Blood-gulch, waiting for our new recruit to come in. It was late at night, but neither of us could sleep. It was too cold for me in the base and apparently Grif was a finicky sleeper. [I couldn’t have guess that with the amount of snoring he does] So, at about one in the morning, we sat at the kitchen table, decked out in pajamas, arguing about fucking pastries.

"Fuck your passion; I vote for be able to eat things right away. And even better, you can’t go _wrong_  with pie. It’ll never be dry and never too sweet. Fucking cakes are loose cannons.” Although it was late, he was adamant about the whole thing and wide-awake to boot.

"Maybe when our new soldier comes in, we can ask him what he thinks, huh?" I tried to deadpan. All the larger man did was shake his head and lean back in his chair, pulling a cigarette from a packet on the table. He pulled out a lighter from his pocket and lit the cancer-stick. I grimaced when he brought it to his lips, taking a drag. "And when has it been alright for you to smoke? It’ll kill you, and even more importantly, kill me through second-hand smoke. What would Sarge think if his second-in-command, that which is me, coughed up a lung in his presence because of you? He’d have to kill you then if that cigarette didn’t already!" Grif was silent for a long time, just smiling. He ran his unoccupied hand through his less-than-uniform hair, his dark eyes glinted with something I hadn’t ever quite seen before and I froze.

     The fucker was going to say something; something well placed to get under my skin.

"So, if it bothers you so much-" Another inhale of tobacco smoke and partnered exhale. "What’re you gonna do about it, kissass?" My thoughts stopped dead in their tracks. It wasn’t in my best interest to react to the tension as harshly as I did. He was trying to cause a reaction to it and I should have backed away. But, instead, I lurched forward. And I probably meant to hit him, sure, but something else came out of it. Something pretty awful.

     I kissed him.

     It wasn’t as if this wasn’t pent up—to a degree. I’d always gotten flustered because of Grif, no matter what. Even when it was just over silly things like what we were eating for dinner or who got the last extra blanket at night or more serious matters like when he ended up puking his guts for three days because he couldn’t wait fifteen extra minutes for the chicken to be done cooking. Grif made me think of him and him alone, always. I hated having to take watch with him because he made my stomach turn and mind fuzzy with confusion. He, to date, had been the only one able to eat away at my very core like he did. This time was different just because he  _wanted_  it, I guess. And I gave it to him.

     The kiss didn’t last long and it was more teeth than anything. But there I stood between his spread legs, kissing his mouth roughly, somehow avoiding the cigarette and hitting my target. He only gave a surprised grunt, body jolted by the sudden contact. The cigarette dropped form his hand and his fingers wrapped around my upper arms, pulling me away so he could give me an incredulous look. He was breathless, flushed, confused and so was I. The silence between us was short as he started to question me.

"What-" Was all he managed before my lust-filled anger spewed into words.

"Shut up. Shut the  _fuck_  up. I don’t care whether you or I like cake or pie. You are the only thing I care about or like, Dexter Grif,” I mumbled so only he could hear. [Although, I doubt Sarge would have gotten up even if it were the start of World War III] My eyes met his as a fearful gaze swept over him. “I hate you. I hate you so much I love you.”

     Grif didn’t know how to react, I don’t think. I guess what happened next was instinct. He pulled me in and kissed me, lightly, tenderly. Even if I hadn’t of wanted it, he’d probably just hold me there with his strong hands. However, that wasn’t the case as I brought my own hands up to cradle his face. When we pulled away, he smiled softly.

"So, Simmons, is this your defeat?" He snarked, letting me go. I grimaced sourly, standing straight. I didn’t really knew what he meant. My ‘defeat’ could have been a lot at that point. My defeat of personal determination not to like him, the fact that he understood better than I understood, my out-of-character outbursts that I vowed for no one to see, my odd self-loathing release through words, or—

"That pie is better than cake?" I sighed, although a small grin pulled at the corners of my lips.

"Shut up, asshole."

"Gotta kiss me again for me to do that."

"You rat bastard."

"I love you too."


End file.
